


Six Weeks or an Eternity

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Arthur ends up an old man filled with regret and waiting to die alone, Classical Music, College, Conservatorium, I guess you could call it 'realism', Lost dreams, Mistakes, Not Fluff, Not a happy ending (really), Piano, Tendonitis, University, degree, holy shit, if you're into that sort of thing, ily bby, sorry - Freeform, that was a really depressing thing to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a prodigy. His life in classical music is about to begin. He's days away from the completion of the degree which will open all the doors for him when everything turns back on him, with a vengeance. With acute tendonitis in his right hand, he may never be able to play piano again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Weeks or an Eternity

He’s going to finish his degree. In six weeks, he’s going to have his final recital and jury. No more touchy Yamaha in a tiny practice room, no more living off Mr Noodle and too-little sleep. In six weeks, he’s not going to be Malorie-Miles’-promising-student. In six weeks, he’s going to be Arthur-Fucking-Goldberg-Like-The-Variations, capitals and profanity present and necessary. Because in six weeks he’s going to perform in front of half the conservatorium. In six weeks, he’s going to be handed offers left and right. He’s going to hammer Mendelssohn, nail Haydn, flawlessly execute Schubert, turn Rachmaninoff from beautiful sound to liquid gold for the ears and effortlessly make Mozart something worth playing. Six weeks.

Mozart hadn’t been his idea, of course. It had been Mal’s.

“Arthur,  _mon beau,_  you will play Mozart for your recital.” He recalls the conversation clearly.

“Mal, I’m not going to play Mozart.”

“You need to show them, Arthur. That your beautiful hands are capable of playing rough Bach and gentle Mozart. You must show them  _pouf.”_

“Then I’ll play  _Erlkonig. Please,_ Mal.”

“Non. A Mozart concerto. Nothing else will do.”

“Liszt. Liszt Piano Concerto No. 1.”

The look she’d given him had been enough to stop any more arguments he might have had, and the decision was made.

So he’s playing Mozart for his final recital. He sits at the Yamaha in the tiny practice room and knows his life will start in six weeks. He’ll finish his degree with honours. He’ll go into his masters, or accept one of the dozens of offers he’ll receive. He’s a prodigy, and he’s only twenty-one. In six weeks, he’ll be one of the most talked-about pianists in the classical world, and he thinks he might even deserve it, for his seventeen years of dedication and passion.

This is what he’s thinking about as he rolls his shoulders back, placing his fingers on the keys of the touchy Yamaha. Well, that and the eight-foot Bosendorfer in Mal’s studio. So it’s really no wonder he doesn’t acknowledge the twinge in his right wrist. He shrugs it off, chalking it down to sitting in one position for too long. Only six weeks, and his life can start.

***

“Arthur…”

“I know.”

“Arthur, look at me,  _mon chere.”_

It’s with a quiet sigh of defeat that Arthur draws his eyes away from the milky enamel of the Bosendorfer’s keys to meet Mal’s gaze. Mal’s reproachful gaze. Her slightly irritated gaze. Perhaps there’s a hint of desperation there, too. “I know,” he repeats, because he does, and maybe a hint of his own desperation touches his voice.

“Your recital is in three weeks _,”_ she says, as though he needs reminding.“Your jury is three days after. You don’t have time to be like this,  _beau_.”

Arthur almost flinches at her gentle voice. Only when things are dire does Mal address him as  _chere_ or  _beau._ It’s usually  _pouf_ or _mon garçon,_ and hearing her call him anything else has bred something of a Pavlovian fear in him. “Sorry,” he says, a little ashamed. “I’ll do it again.  _Einsamkeit_ from the start, yeah?”

Mal nods, but her eyes convey her lingering hints of worry for him.

He stretches his fingers, ignoring the stab of pain shooting up his arm to his shoulder as he does so, and begins to play again.

 _It’s only carpal tunnel. No-one ever died of carpal tunnel. No-one’s careers were ended by carpal tunnel_ , he tells himself, because even imagining the alternative is beyond cruel. He’s Arthur-Fucking-Goldberg-Like-The-Variations and he can’t afford to have anything worse than carpal tunnel.

***

Arthur’s barely scratched the surface of  _Rach 3_ when Mal instructs him to stop and restart. He makes it three bars before she’s shaking her head and telling him to take it from the top. The third time, he doesn’t even make it that far.

“What am I doing wrong?” he snaps, because the constant, burning pain running through his arm whenever it moves his fingers the barest inch is making him irritable and sharp.

Mal blinks at him, but her face shows no other expression but quiet patience.

Arthur glares at her for all of two seconds before dropping his gaze, ashamed. He knows what he’s doing wrong. Rather, he knows what he’s doing right. The list isn’t very long. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to do it again?” he asks, sure this will be her next command. Three days until his recital and it’s all going to shit.

She says, “Show me your hands,  _beau garçon.”_

Arthur glances back at her, seeing her own hands held out to him imploringly, her eyes sad with a hint of worry. Arthur wonders if it would be too childish to pull his hands from the keys of the Bosendorfer and hide them in his lap, or sit on them. With a defeated sigh, he holds them out for her, wishing his right hand didn’t tremble and burn like fire as he did. “It’s nothing,” he says, knowing she doesn’t believe him.

Not listening to his empty words, she takes his right hand and strokes her delicate fingers over his palm.

“Just a bit of carpal tunnel, is all,” he says, trying to swallow past whatever is lodged in his throat.

Mal’s flashing anger is expressed clearly when she glares up at him and digs her thumb into his palm, her aim unerringly reaching the worst of the pain. Fire tears up his arm, through his shoulder and neck, straight to his brain.

Arthur cries out and tugs his hand from her grasp, cradling it to his chest.

“Arthur,  _mon amour…”_ She trails off, helpless, eyes devastated as she takes in his terror.  _“Chere…”_

“Don’t call me that, Mal!” he snaps, because nothing good ever happens when Mal is gentle with him, treats him as though he’s going to break if she’s too rough. “Please, just… don’t. I can’t…”

“It’s okay, Arthur. It’s alright. We’ll postpone your recital,  _ch… garçon_. Six weeks of rest, alright? Six weeks, and you can come back next year and finish your-”

“I don’t need six weeks!” he exclaims, desperate. “It’s just carpal tunnel, it’s fine! I’ll just get some Deep Heat and-”

“Arthur,” she cuts in firmly, reaching out to grasp his knee, gentle yet firm. “You  _can’t, cheri.”_

The way she says it, with such finality, makes his stomach bottom out and his chest rip open to allow his heart to flop pathetically out onto her beautiful Bosendorfer. His hand hurts. Hell, his whole body hurts.

“I’ll hold your position,” she says gently, her touch on his knee going from firm to soothing as something terrible rises inside him. “All will be well, and you can finish your degree next year. Everything will still be waiting for you when you come back.”

 _“If_ I come back,” he corrects breathlessly. He’s looking at his hand, looking at it, searching for some sign.

“You will.”

Arthur wishes he has Mal’s certainty. Six weeks, or forever.

***

Advanced tendonitis. His doctor wonders how it got along so far without him telling anyone about the pain, or finding it abnormal. He might never touch a piano again. He shrugs numbly. Doesn’t have a response.

***

The brace is meant to come off after three weeks, but Arthur is still gritting his teeth whenever he performs the physiotherapy and finger exercises his doctor set him, so he leaves it on. He knows it’s too little, too late. He wishes he could take it all back.

***

“Arthur,  _mon cher!_ When are you coming home? I still have your place saved for you,  _beau garçon.”_

He has to clear his throat three times before he can speak, and even then, his voice is strained. “Mal, I’m… Are you still holding that position?”

“Of course,  _pouf,_ don’t be ridiculous! I wouldn’t simply give it away.”

“You…” He has to stop to clear his throat again. “You should give it away,” he finally manages, voice tight with tears he won’t allow himself to shed. He looks down at his weak right hand, still in the brace. It’s been eight weeks. “I don’t think I’ll be back for a while.”

“But you are coming back.”

“Yeah, I…” He swallows around his heart, lodged in his throat. “Yeah,” he says lamely. They both know it’s a lie.  
  
He's not Arthur-Fucking-Goldberg-Like-The-Variations. He's just arthur goldberg, some dropkick kid who never finished his music degree.

***

His doctor tells him there’s too much scar tissue formed around his tendon. He tells him he’ll never be able to get rid of all of it. He tells him he won’t be able to play for a very long time, that he’ll never be as good as he was. He nods numbly. He doesn’t know what else to do.

***

When he finally tells Mal, she shouts at him for a long time. Or rather, he wishes she would. It’s unspeakably worse, having her gently telling him it will be alright, they’ll work something out, everything will sort itself out.

Frustration and disappointment and irritation build in him until he breaks, shouting, “What do you want, Mal? A gold star? A sticker saying ‘congratulations, it's not your fault Arthur’s managed to royally screw his career’?”

She shakes her head sadly, hiding her gentle, beautiful, stricken face in her hands.  _“Non, beau garçon._ I just wish I’d never been so stupid, to not see it.”

All the anger leaves him and he sits heavily down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Mal. I was an idiot. I thought it would go away if I ignored it.”

“You would have been so great,” she whispered into her hands.

“I  _was_ great,” he says, because he’ll never be great again, so that will have to suffice.

She nods, face still hidden. “The best.”

And it feels like Arthur’s heart’s being torn out all over again.

***

He never does become Arthur-Fucking-Goldberg-Like-The-Variations. He becomes Arthur Goldberg, acclaimed composer of piano concertos. After many years, he becomes a tutor at the university he never graduated classical music from. He did get a degree in composition and interpretation, but he was never quite what he wanted to be.

***

Every now and then a new student might ask, when introduced to him, “Goldberg, like the variations?”

Whenever this happens, Arthur shakes his head with an old smile. “No,” he says. “Just Arthur Goldberg.”

***

He tries to make it enough.

He wishes it were enough.

He’s never what he could have been.

Whenever he thinks this, he dies all over again.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Have some links to intertextual references. Especially the first three omg.
> 
> [Schubert's Erlkonig](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XP5RP6OEJI)  
> [Schubert's Winterreise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UNGZP9pOfws)  
> [Liszt's Piano Concerto No 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMaL-rtOeqE) (which I love)  
> [Bach's Goldberg Variations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ppcbLdtghE)  
> [Mendelssohn's Double Piano Concerto in A-Flat Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8Zr1XtqLTA) (which Arthur wouldn't have played but is still pretty cool)  
> [Haydn's Piano Concerto No 11 in D Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulmMucPqW9w)  
> [](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSXtXLAVgkE>Rachmaninoff's%20Piano%20Concerto%20No%203%20\(Rach%203\)</a>)


End file.
